Snapshot
by KismetJeska
Summary: The bomb is pointed at the gun and time seems to freeze for just this one moment. Character study more than anything else- possible slash if you squint. Rated T for language.


Some moments, no matter how devastating, are beautiful.

Some moments are haunting with a special kind of melancholy, a sadness that takes a snapshot for you and buries it inside your brain. When it comes down to it, fear and awe are so very similar. A sharp intake of breath. Scenes that your mind cannot comprehend. Sometimes, even when everything is falling apart and the world threatens to swallow you whole, there is still a certain edge to things. A certain poignancy.

This is not one of those moments.

* * *

><p>There is no beautiful way to describe this, no poetry or prose. This is not glory and victory and valiant defeat. This is a shitty, run down leisure centre, reeking of sweat and piss and chlorine. You can smell blood, but you don't know where or how. Every inch of you is screaming, twisting, desperate to break out and do something. Anything. Run, fight, drown, beg, just <em>fucking get me out please<em> _oh god oh please_.

You were once a brave man. You suppose you still are. Sherlock was right- you lust after the the chase and the excitement. But dying isn't bravery. You knew when you walked into the centre in that _thing_'s tight embrace that you would die for Sherlock in a second. Of course you would. But acceptance does not always cancel out fear and the problem is not the inside of you.

You are determined not to portray emotion, determined not to betray Sherlock. You heard his voice shake as he pulled the vest from you and you know he watched you buckle, but in that second it didn't matter, not for either of you. In this second, it seems to.

A tear bites your eye. You remember yourself mere months ago; awake at three A.M, weeping over seclusion and delusion. You promise yourself will never be that man again. Not while Sherlock is around.

_I was a doctor, I was in Afghanistan. I've seen it all, done it all, got the jumper and then shot a man in it_. _This is not new and I do not need to fear. _It's hard to get your body to agree with your mind's conclusion. You can see, quite clearly, one of the boys you failed to save. He's standing behind Moriarty. You can see the blood drown the eye where the bullet made its home. You ensure you do not wince as you watch the second bullet burst through head: like you knew it would, like it always does.

And fuck, he was only nineteen- but no, don't think about that now.

These seconds have stretched for hours and when you look at the gun, still pointed at the bomb, you murmur the words so softly that your mouth doesn't even move. _Please, God, let me live._

You allow yourself this one, small moment. A single tear is born in your eye before you blink it away.

You place your feelings in a box and seal it shut.

* * *

><p>Reading the newspaper and sipping your tea, it occurs to you that one day, your brother will be killed. He will be shot or stabbed or strangled. Maybe by an enemy. Maybe by a friend. Maybe even by himself.<p>

Shrouded by your surveillance and your protection, Sherlock's death had never presented itself as a legitimate possibility. Despite your constant worry, you hadn't fully understood the enormity of this. Not until now.

One day, Sherlock will die.

This will become one of the few things in life that keeps you up at night. The two facts that stop you from sleeping.  
>One: One day, Sherlock will die.<br>Two: You have no way of stopping this; you will never be able to do enough.

* * *

><p>As you pick up their rubbish, you wonder what exciting adventure they're off having right now.<p>

You don't mind looking after them, not really. You make them smile. You like it when they smile.

They think of you as their housekeeper. That doesn't bother you. You just wish that they'd talk to you, just that little bit more often. You'll never admit it, but they're the closest thing to family you've got.

You hope that, wherever they are, they are safe.

* * *

><p>Your mind is working at a hundred miles a minute. Pool, gun, vest, John, walls, swimming centre, trainers, cars, botox, blood, bombs. Boom. The thoughts are roaring and so deep inside that you barely even notice, your heart is whispering.<p>

Despite it all, you're afraid to die. There are so many things you've never said and so many opportunities you've never taken. You look over at John. You ask with your eyes what must remain unsaid and John nods, ever so slightly. Permission. He trusts you.

And now fear fills you like a torrent, flooding every inch of you. His life in your hands. So many lives, all in your hands.

No. Collateral damage. You could save the entire world if you make the correct choice in this moment. It's the oldest conundrum of all time- do you kill the one to save the many?

What if that one is the entire world to you?

_Don't make people into heroes, John. Heroes don't exist and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them._

John might be, though.

Your mind slows. You've exhausted every avenue, ran through every theory. You know that this is the best way out and unless a miracle occurs, this is going to be what happens. You feel a little better, knowing that. This is no longer your choice. This is the _only_ choice.

You can breathe a little easier. Logic, deduction, analysis. These build a foundation that strengthens you. The guilt is there, yes, but guilt can be repressed. You've been practicing for over twenty years.

You raise your eyes and lock them with Moriarty's. He smiles. You smile back.

* * *

><p>you miss your brother but it's not like he was ever really that close to you anyway<p>

why would he be? you're you.

he probably only wanted to see clara anyway.

_(she looked so sad when she pleaded like that)_

you really only want to see clara anyway

_(when she fought you for the bottle, physically fought you, hands on glass on skin on)_

fill glass. raise glass.

_(she tried so hard. she loved you so much and you loved her so much.)_

drain glass. repeat.

_(in the end, she left anyway.)_

none of this, none of this matters

_(in the end, they'll all leave anyway.)_

* * *

><p>You sit at home, staring blankly at your blog. You suppose you ought to write something.<p>

The doorbell rings and you light up. You bounce to open it, beaming. It's a vague friend from the morgue, how nice. You chatter and bubble and bring them wine and crisps you put into a little bowl, framed with kittens and roses. You smile at the bowl and you smile at your guest. You make your excuses and hurry up to the bedroom for a few moments. You close your (pink) door behind you, neatly. Once you're hidden away, you allow yourself to slump a little.

You wonder where Jim is. He was supposed to be coming around. You smell the roses he gave you this morning. You pull on a long jumper to hide the marks from where he hit you last night.

* * *

><p>Sherlock's capable of pulling the trigger. There's nothing unusual there. There'd be nothing unusual there.<p>

But God, how boring, how very very boring. Your plans, your grand plans, master plans, rise and fall and crush and blood and death, oozing death, yes. You have plans and you would be most disappointed if they were not carried out.

You do half hope he shoots. Just to see what would happen. You wonder, what does it _feel like_? Shrapnel, bullets, bruises, beautiful. Tearing, cutting, yes such painjoylife yes. You'll never get to know, though.

He's boring, so boring, all boring, why boring?

Fun fun fun, yes, you need fun. You want to scream, laugh, shoot the damn thing yourself just so something, anything will happen. But this tension is good, you admit this tension is good. It makes you lick your lips and shudder a little. You smile. Sherlock catches your eye and smiles back.

Good good good, smiles, smiles are good. Smiles are fun and playing and games, this game, this has been the best one so far. But it gets better, oh, it gets so much better.

A part of you is still bitter that Sherlock won't pull the trigger. He won't. You know he won't.

But God, wouldn't it be nice? It would be _so_ nice. So nice for somebody to do something you didn't know they would do, just once just once just once.

* * *

><p>All moments will pass. You will look back and see how things have gotten better. There will be laughing and drinking and smiling. There will be hugging and holding and comfort.<p>

Some moments give life. They last only a split second and then allow you to move, to think, to feel freely. They offer limitless potential and allow you to burst out, ready, proving yourself.

Other moments kill time. They last forever. They too will pass, but in that instant, they are forever and they are always.

This is one of those moments.


End file.
